


Eastertide

by praiseofshadows



Series: that arthurian series I'm not writing [2]
Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 09:45:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3376952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/praiseofshadows/pseuds/praiseofshadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Easter feast is exquisite, though the parade of never-ending subtleties does little to settle Galahad’s stomach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eastertide

Passiontide bleeds into Holy Week, and although Galahad cannot convince Mordred to allow him attendance to either Tenebrae or Easter Vigil, even Mordred is not so churlish as to deny Galahad his right to take Easter mass outside of the sickroom. Still, it takes far longer than it ought for Galahad to bathe and dress, his breath short and winded like he’d fought an army rather than his shirt and doublet. Mounting a horse is out of the question, and so he and Mordred take mass in the castle’s chapel rather than riding out to St. Stephen’s with the king. Even that short walk from sickroom to sanctuary taxes Galahad more than he’d ever admit to Mordred. 

Guinevere looks sour as they enter the royal pew but she greets them civilly enough, going so far as to call Mordred _nephew_ and offer up her right hand. Mordred perfunctorily bows over it, and Galahad does the same, though he near swoons from the lightheadedness the action brings.

Mordred’s own right hand, once quietly solicitous on Galahad’s elbow, is now the only thing holding him upright.

And Galahad nears swoons again from lightheadedness of an altogether different kind. 

And if Galahad lingers overlong when the deacon invites the congregation to give each other the kiss of peace, well, no one but himself and Mordred are the wiser.

#

The Easter feast is exquisite, though the parade of never-ending subtleties does little to settle Galahad’s stomach. Still, as Guinevere had spent the day crediting his fast recovery to her many masses, Lancelot had braved the sickroom and Mordred both to insist that Galahad attend. And so now Galahad sits at his father’s right-hand and listens to his cousin Lionel prattle on about a tournament to be held in Winchester, some six days hence, to celebrate the first of May.

At the mention of May Day, Galahad cannot keep himself from glancing up at the high table. Mordred had been summoned away to see the king shortly after none, presumably to be reminded of his duties to Logres on this most holy of feast days. Mordred is now dressed in his best black velvet, embroidered by the queen’s own hands in gold thread. He wears his heavy chain of office– a name-day gift from the king – around his neck. 

Galahad has held the chain in his own hands and can swear by the virgin’s tears that it is both beautiful and costly; the gold links are cunningly wrought dragons and the device hanging from them is that of Arthur’s own three crowns. But Mordred, after receiving such a princely gift, had said nothing to Arthur, though courtesy and honour demanded a mighty thanks. 

Never, he had told Galahad, drunker that May Day than Galahad had ever seen him, had his sobriquet of _false knight_ proved so apt.

Mordred briefly breaks his conversation with Sir Gawain to raise a lone, wry eyebrow at Galahad. 

Galahad, well aware that he has been caught staring, cannot bring himself to care as Mordred is the one person Galahad would stare at ‘til the end of all days. He raises his glass to Mordred in a silent toast. 

Mordred flushes, a dull red that is not particularly comely and should not please Galahad as much as it does. 

“Boy,” he says to one of the attending pages, “take this to Sir Mordred with my compliments.”

“Sweet Jesu,” the boy says, fright writ large on his small face, but he obediently – if somewhat grudgingly – takes the glass that Galahad gives him.

They’re drinking far better wine at the high table, Galahad knows, but Mordred exchanges his glass all the same.

Mordred then says something to the boy, and the boy looks – if possible – even more fearful.

The boy is new to Camelot, and it is obvious that the boy has heard some of the more lurid of the servants’ tales. Galahad, too, had heard such tales when he had arrived at court: that Mordred’s persistent youth and otherworldly beauty came from consorting with demons, stealing men’s souls, and other crimes most foul. 

As Mordred’s crimes generally consist of using the servants’ tales to press an advantage, Galahad is not overly concerned when the boy returns, hands Mordred’s glass to Galahad, and then immediately mumbles a rather incoherent apology to the page in attendance next to him.

Mordred smirks slightly and then raises Galahad’s glass in an echo of Galahad’s earlier gesture.

#

It’s late, so late it’s quite possibly Easter Monday, when Mordred slips in bed beside him. 

Before, Galahad could scarce believe it when Mordred came to his bed. But Mordred _did_ come, like a cat – contrary and when Galahad least expected it – and would kiss Galahad awake with that bee-stung mouth.

Now, Mordred places a blessedly cool hand upon Galahad’s brow and asks, “Did that page help you to bed?” Mordred’s voice suggests that, if not, the page had best be packing his bags and returning to whatever petty fiefdom whelped him.

“Aye,” Galahad says. Then, because he’s curious, “What did you say to him?”

“Nothing of consequence,” Mordred says. “And he’ll be the nine-day wonder of his peers now, as he spoke with the wicked Mordred and will live to embellish such a tale. Did you sleep, at least?”

“Aye,” Galahad says, though he has not slept at all. But it does not do for Mordred to worry, and so he asks, for distraction’s sake, “Did you hear tell of the tournament at Winchester?” 

“I’ve heard tell of little else these last long hours,” Mordred says. “Who is going, what arms they will bear, how the prize is to be a giant diamond the likes Logres has ne'er seen.” He attempts to remove his hand, but Galahad catches his wrist, so deceptively fine-boned, and holds firm.

If Galahad were well and hale, he would take advantage of Mordred’s penchant for being manhandled to bully Mordred until Mordred lay, naked and supine, upon the counterpane.

But Galahad is not well. And so he can only drag Mordred’s hand down to his lips to press a fervent kiss to the back of it. He would win Mordred a thousand diamonds given the chance and so he says, reverent and thick-tongued, “You have but to ask, and I will win you the prize.”

“You, sir knight?” Mordred drawls. “You’re more like to swoon than to win me jewels.” His voice is blithely unconcerned, but Galahad feels him shiver and knows he cannot be as unaffected as he pretends. Mordred always did like to watch him win tournaments.

“Never,” Galahad lies.


End file.
